


Dirty Little Habit

by jaradel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaradel/pseuds/jaradel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first cigarette of the day is always the best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Little Habit

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little one-shot that's been lurking in my WIP folder for a while. I have the day off today, so have a fluffy little fic on me. 
> 
> Screencap provided by the lovely [Aithine](http://sc.aithine.org/Sherlock).

 

 

          "Right, well, I'm done," John said, shutting his laptop and getting up from the table in the sitting room.

          "Turning in?" Sherlock asked, looking up at John from his chair.

          "Yeah, well, some of us have to work for a living, you know," John teased. He leaned over and kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "Don't stay up too late, yeah?"

          One side of Sherlock’s mouth quirked in a lopsided grin. "I'll try not to," he said, capturing John's hand and giving it a brief squeeze. John smiled at him fondly, and walked through the kitchen back to their room.

          Sherlock waited for John to finish in the bathroom and go to bed; he waited a bit longer until he could hear a faint snoring emanating from the back hallway. He unfolded himself from his chair, stretching as he stood, and walked around the chair to the bookcase. He selected a particularly worn volume and opened it, revealing a compartment where pages should have been. He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and his lighter, sliding them into his jacket pocket, replacing the false book on the shelf. He crossed the living room carefully, knowing the exact placement of every creaky floorboard, opened the door of their flat with great care, and stole down the steps on cat feet - a pretty good trick for someone with size 11 shoes.

          He'd been waiting for this all day.

          Sherlock and John didn't discuss his smoking habit. Naturally, John was opposed; his training as a physician informing him of the deleterious effects of smoking on the human body. That being said, smoking was a damn sight safer than cocaine - and legal - so John typically did not give Sherlock a hard time about it. Sherlock, for his part, refrained as much as possible, but the nicotine patches were a poor substitute for the peaceful and relaxing act of smoking. Sometimes Sherlock just wanted a cigarette, and today was one of those days.

          Sherlock carefully eased open the front door and slipped out, taking care to shut it quietly. The cool breeze of a late summer evening caressed his angular face and ruffled his dark curls as he walked past Speedy's to the corner. Finding a suitable bit of wall to lean against, he took the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, pulled one out, and put the pack away. Holding the cigarette between his lips, he fished out his lighter, cupping his hand around it as he lit the cigarette. He put the lighter away and took a long drag, holding the smoke in for a few seconds before slowly exhaling.

          The first cigarette of the day was always the best.

          The nicotine went straight to the eagerly waiting receptors in his brain, setting them ablaze. The effect was an immediate buzz, better and faster than one from alcohol (which he rarely imbibed, partly because of his predisposition to addiction, and partly due to the dulling effects alcohol had on one’s brain). He took another slow drag, savouring the feeling, and observed his surroundings. Even this late at night, away from the main thoroughfares, London was alive and buzzing with people out and about. Sherlock idly occupied himself with people-watching while he smoked, deducing the passers-by. When he finished the cigarette he flicked the stub of tobacco and ash out of the butt and pocketed it for proper disposal.

          After a moment of indecision he pulled out another one and lit it. The second was never as good as the first, but half of the enjoyment was from the action of smoking, and he took his time with it, slowly dragging on the cigarette, inhaling the slightly bitter smoke, holding it for a moment, and exhaling slowly. He could hear John's voice in his head, scolding him gently for polluting his lungs with tar and other dubious chemicals, and it made him smile in spite of himself. John... _his John..._ cared so much for him. Even after all this time, after all they had been through together, Sherlock still was not accustomed to someone accepting him for who he was, with all his hang-ups and idiosyncrasies, and he marvelled at how lucky he was to have John in his life. And it was in deference to John that, after finishing his second cigarette, he decided against having a third.

          Sherlock turned and walked back to the flat, entering as carefully and silently as he left. He put his pack and lighter back in their hiding place, walked into the kitchen and fished the spent filters out of his pocket, depositing them in the bin. He made a quick stop in the bathroom to clean his teeth and wash his hands, and then opened the door to their bedroom.

_Their bedroom_. Sherlock was still getting used to that, to the wonderful feeling of waking up next to John in the morning, to a life shared with someone he loved (and who, to Sherlock's surprise and delight, loved him just as much). His time away from John had only served to underscore how much he needed him in his life, and now that he was back, he was determined never to leave John again. He was quite certain that such a separation would kill them both.

          Sherlock undressed quietly, hanging up his suit and dropping his shirt in the dry-cleaning pile. He pulled on a soft pair of striped pyjama bottoms and climbed into bed behind John, curling his body around the shorter man's form. Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's waist, and buried his face in John's hair, inhaling his unique and intoxicating scent.

          "You've been smoking," John mumbled softly.

          Sherlock smiled. "Mmm," he purred.

          "Naughty boy," John teased, his voice like honey.

          "What are you going to do about it?" Sherlock rumbled in John's ear.

          John turned in Sherlock's embrace, and in one fluid motion ( _combat training put to good use,_ Sherlock thought), he had Sherlock on his back and was on top of him, his lips curved in a smile that Sherlock treasured. "That's for me to know and you to find out," John replied, claiming Sherlock's mouth in a passionate kiss.


End file.
